


Before Sunrise

by Reddragon1995



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boat Sex, Contemplation, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, female ambition, male cluelessness, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-01 16:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17247209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: On the morning before arriving in White Harbor, Daenerys considers her future with Jon...or without him.





	1. Chapter 1

Daenerys stared out the portholes of her stateroom, the view obscured by the reflection of the candles flickering behind her. There wasn’t much to see anyway. The expanse of the Narrow Sea stretched as infinitely as the clouded, moonless sky above, black against black, an abyss drawing her to its precipice. 

She’d been awake for hours. She and Jon had made love twice: once, upon retiring for the evening to her cabin, and again a few hours later when, in her restlessness, she sought the relief of his mouth suckling her cunt before his cock found its way home inside her. She could still feel the remnants of his seed clinging to her walls, determined to take root in her accursed womb.  _ If only. _

Afterward, Jon had quickly fallen back to sleep, his weary body succumbing to the lack of rest he’d had on this journey. Every now and then a raspy snore escaped his throat, or a contented hum, but mostly slow, deep breaths, welcome assurance that he was there, and very real, and not a cruel figment of her imagination.

He slept so soundly that she managed to disentangle from his possessive embrace without a hint of protest, and she now stood, cloaked in a thin robe of black silk secured by a silver and red cord, her moonglow hair arranged in a single plait that draped over her left shoulder.  She’d taken to this simpler style of late, with no soaking tub or enough hot water to allow her to wash her tresses properly. Besides, her desire to have more time with Jon, exploring and exalting one another’s bodies, sapped her patience for spending hours with someone’s hands in her hair besides his, brushing and pulling and tugging and pinning her locks into intricate coifs. And he seemed to prefer it this way, inornate and flowing freely, so he could burrow his fingers or nose in the softness of those silver-gold waves during their intimate moments.

She loved him.  It was irreversible. She knew it before he’d departed for Eastwatch, though at the time she’d done her damndest to resist it. Love was a distraction, the bane of ambition and duty, and she had more important pursuits to consider. But when she received word that he and his company were trapped, facing certain death, she’d chucked it all aside without hesitation to go and save them.  To save  _ him _ . 

On the journey home, as she’d held vigil at his bedside, praying to gods to whom she did not hold, and mourning her sweet Viserion, she admitted to herself that love had conquered reason. She did manage to restrain herself, despite the longing in his eyes and the touch of his hand, affirmation that her feelings were returned. She’d left his side, rejecting his silent plea, knowing full well what would happen if she remained. 

After that, preparations for the summit with Cersei granted a short reprieve from their mutual pining, and though tension still arced between them, they had given each other wide breadth, communicating only during council meetings. The absence of him in between times was a death by a thousand tiny cuts, the depth of her feelings weighing heavy as they avoided the temptation of being alone together.

Then he knocked on her cabin door a fortnight past, his eyes hungry and yearning and unquestioning, and she let go. There was no choice. For all her power, she could no longer deny her heart’s desire. He was honorable where other men were not, gentle where they were harsh, brave where they were cowardly, merciful where they were cruel. He was as pure of heart as any person she knew. He had his scars and secrets to be sure, his mistakes and regrets. He was impulsive, governed by emotions. Stubborn, broody, taciturn, unrefined despite his noble upbringing. Not perfect, by any means.

But perfect for her.

And with him, she’d been happy, so easily able to shut away the rest of the world and its troubles, loved for herself alone. It was a rare gift in this world, and she realized she was more fortunate than most. 

They’d never actually said the words. He needn’t utter it, as his eyes and the reverence of his touch declared it clearly enough. She knew each night he would come to her bed, and she welcomed him, and they’d spent hours on end entangled in furs and sheets and each other, slickened with sweat and fluids, chests heaving with exertion, muscles sore from unfamiliar use, pupils dilated and skin pinkened with lust. Gods, the way he fucked her…..so thoroughly, holding his own release until hers was upon her, his cock skilled, its aim always true. And the things he did with his tongue…..she grew wet at the thought of it. 

Once she’d learned to use her womanhood to her advantage, all those years ago with The Khal, Daenerys was used to being in control, to setting the pace and chasing her own pleasure, sometimes finding it with a lover, sometimes not. But with Jon she surrendered fully, giving as much as taking, being loved but loving in return, and it was the sweetest elixir, intoxicating and addictive. 

And, in only a few hours, she’d have to give him up.

Not entirely, of course.  She was still his Queen, he, her trusted general and councilor. Gods be good, he may still share her bed sometimes. But the time to have him all to herself was fading with every wave breaking against the ship’s bow, and she silently cursed the friendly winds that pushed them closer to White Harbor. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, contemplating the harsh realities that awaited them once they set foot on dry land.

Disgruntled, narrow-minded Northern lords.

An army of dead men and ice demons, bent on their destruction.

His sisters.

It was suddenly too much, sucking the air from her lungs, panic constricting her throat.

It was unqueenly for her to let her worries torment her so. She was  _ Mhysa _ to her people, their source of strength, and in her current state, they must be terribly weak. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes and she drew a long breath, searching for serenity.

“Come back to bed, love.”  Jon’s sleepy Northern brogue halted her ruminations.  “It’s cold without you.” 

She turned, and in the dying glow of the candlelight he must have seen the unshed tears shining in her eyes, for he was at her side in a second, wrapping his strong arms around her from behind, his hands clasping hers and resting at her navel.  She drew another shaky breath and faded into him as he planted a gentle kiss atop her head.  She loved how well her body fit with his, as though the gods had molded them only for one another.  He was a head or more shorter than her previous lovers, but sturdy and sculpted and deceptively powerful, and she felt tiny and protected in his embrace. She inhaled the scent of him and of her on him, and despite her sour mood her heart skittered in her chest, the familiar melt in her belly reaching in heated tendrils to her nethers, the dew forming, readying her body for him though her heart and mind were elsewhere. She screwed her eyes shut and concentrated on his embrace, ever so slightly swaying with him as the ship gently rocked in the cold waters below. He was still naked, and his sleepy cock fattened at the motion, pressing against her backside, but he made no move to cup her breasts or finger her cunt as he typically would, understanding that now was not the time for ravishing her. 

“I’m supposed to be the broody one, remember?” He slipped his right hand up to her shoulder, pushing the fabric aside, caressing her collarbone with deft fingers, his lips soft against her cheek.  “What’s troubling you, my love?”

Her insides knotted when he called her that.  He wasn’t a man of many words, but when he did speak tenderly to her, the gentleness of his voice, the adoration and sweetness wrapped up in gruff Northern tones, conquered her, stripping her bare of her regal armor.

“We arrive in White Harbor today.”

He kissed her shoulder. “Aye, we do,” he murmured against her skin. His ministrations a somber reminder of their sweet respite’s end, she shrugged her shoulder away from him. Taking her hint, he rested his chin atop her head.  “And?”

“And….” she sighed again to compose herself, and brought his left hand to her lips, kissing the roughened knuckles. “I’m not ready.  I’m not ready to let go of this.  Of us.”

“Us?” He turned her around, hands resting on her upper arms, muscles tensed as though bracing for the worst.  “What do you mean?”

Daenerys closed her eyes and leaned into him, resting her palms on his shoulder blades, her blunt nails indenting his flesh.  “We’ve captured a dream, Jon.  Here, on this ship, together, we can make love all night and forget our troubles and pretend nothing or no one else exists. But the moment we dock in White Harbor, we have to wake up, and only hardship awaits us.  Hardship and loss and death.”  She brought her hand around and placed it over the scar above his heart craning her neck to meet his gaze. “That won’t allow us much time to think about ourselves.  Everything out there will be seeking to tear us asunder,” she gestured toward the window, outside of which the sky was fading from black to gray, the horizon line more visible now.

“You speak as though you mean to end this.” Jon’s tone soured, the words catching in his throat.  “Is that what you’re saying? Don’t I have a say?”

“You misunderstand me.” She pulled him closer still, inhaling to imprint his scent on her memory.  Just in case. “We have not decided what this is or what it means. But I know your Northern lords will not approve of you bedding the Foreign Whore.” 

“I don’t give a fuck about their approval,” he growled, drawing her into a searing kiss, his tongue parting the seam of her lips, brushing hers in deep and devouring strokes, his hands tentatively slipping further beneath the folds of her robe, rubbing her sides, kneading supple flesh until she relented. 

She kissed him back, drinking in the taste of him, her sorrows receding in her mind, but then she called upon her senses to return, despite the spell he weaved with each pass of his lips and tongue against hers. Pulling away from the kiss, she cleared her throat. If this conversation was ever going to happen, it needed to be now.

“They’ll think you bent the knee because I seduced you.”

“Again, I don’t care what they think,” he groaned.  “And you didn’t seduce me.  I’m here because I choose to be. I bent the knee because it was the right thing to do. Because I respect you.”  He leaned in for another soft kiss, then whispered against her mouth, “Because you’re our best hope. Perhaps our only hope.”

She stepped back, squeezing his hand. “And that’s just it, Jon. I know my armies and dragons are necessary if we are to have any chance of defeating the dead, and I know the stakes. Yet the only thing I want right now is to order the ship to turn around and just keep sailing! To go away with you and forget the rest of the world!”  

“We can.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissing the palm, his eyes dark and entreating. “After the dead are defeated and the North is safe, we’ll go.  We’ll sail away on this ship, or climb on Drogon’s back, and we’ll leave. Find a place that’s just ours. I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re together.” He pressed his forehead to hers, cupping the back of her head, stroking her hair with his thumb.  “Just us.”

It took her a moment to realize.

“You’re serious.” 

“Aye.”

“Jon Snow, do you believe that I crossed a continent and an ocean, that I lost a husband and a son and a dragon, that I freed slaves and rallied tens of thousands to my cause, just to give it all up in the end? To run away from my birthright? My duty?”

“I just don’t understand why you want it. I don’t understand why anyone would, but for love of power.”

His words were like manticore venom, seeping into her blood, searing her veins, anger boiling beneath the surface.  She had to count to ten before responding, lest she snap at him as she might have if he were anyone else.

“Do you think I seek the Iron Throne for the sake of power and nothing more?”

He lowered his eyes, regretting his poor choice of words. “Of course not, that’s not what I meant.”

She stalked across the small room and poured a goblet of wine, taking a long drink, the tart liquid a salve for her frayed nerves. “I don’t seek the throne for my own benefit.  I conquered half of Essos without it. But when I was in exile, I saw what happens to people when all of the wealth and privilege is concentrated in the hands of a few families. Those Great Houses fight with treachery to keep things the way they always have been, and who gets crushed beneath the wheel?  In Essos, there were millions enslaved.”

“There are no slaves in Westeros, Dany.”

“Aren't there?” Her tone was sharp with exasperation. She took another drink, then sat the goblet on the table harder than was necessary, the purple-red tonic splashing over the sides. “Because you don’t chain and collar them? In Westeros, what fair chance does one have unless born into nobility? Why should people have to live in a world in which one’s station at birth determines his or her path in life?” 

Like a scolded child he remained silent, her rebuke a rap across his knuckles, and for a moment he looked younger than his score and two years. The flames of her anger dampened and she became acutely aware of his nakedness. Pulling her robe tighter, she poured another goblet of wine and offered it to him, and he begrudgingly accepted, taking a sip, his pillowed lips retaining a purple hue. 

“Look at you,” she said softly, taking the goblet from him and placing it on the table beside hers. She clasped her hands around his neck and pulled his head lower, pressing her forehead to his. “You’re a bastard. A nobleman’s bastard, but a bastard still. And you always assumed that meant that you’d be nothing, do nothing, have nothing to offer. And there are millions, just like you, who are born and live and die with no hope, but what their liege lords provide.  Does that seem like freedom to you?”

“No.”

“And do you expect that Cersei Lannister will make a single move to improve their lives? Anyone’s life but hers, for that matter?”

“No, I don’t.”

She dropped her hands to his shoulders and kissed his cheek. “Westeros hasn’t had competent leadership in decades, even before my father. My brother was meant to be the hope for the Kingdoms, the one ruler in generations who would have made a difference. But he was cut down before his reign could begin. Viserys wasn’t fit to rule. The Usurper, his bastard sons, Cersei….none of them.  But I am. And I must.”  She stepped back and took both his hands in hers, searching his face for a sign of understanding.

He sighed and kissed her hands, his eyes focused on her, weakening her legs, stealing her breath. “Then I will help you.  I will honor my pledge.  If we survive the Great War, I will see you sit on that throne.  Even if it means giving you up.” He released her hands and cupped her face, taking a deep breath, his eyes like black pools in which she may drown. “I will do it because I believe in you….because I love you. I love you, Daenerys.  But if we must be parted, do it now, and spare me some misery.”

Heat flashed over her. She felt her heart beating in her temples, so hard it must fluttered against his fingers. Her belly flipped and churned, her breath labored, and tears pricked her eyes, and this time she was powerless to stop them falling. What had gone unsaid between them for so long now filled the air around her, strengthening and weakening her at once.

“I...I can’t.  I can’t let you go.  I love you, Jon. Only you.”

His lips claimed hers, tender but desperate, nipping at her flesh, hands roving, pushing down her robe until it fell in a black pool around her feet and he kicked it away.  Their tongues dueled and danced as his hands found her breasts, cupping and squeezing, worrying taut nipples.  Wetness seeped from her cunt and she hitched a leg around his thigh, her hands everywhere at once, tugging at his curls, kneading the flesh of his backside, cupping his balls, teasing the moist tip of his cock.  She needed him inside her, and when their lips parted and their eyes met, she gave an imperceptible nod, and in one motion he gathered her legs around his slim waist and sheathed his length inside her, their necks arching in ecstasy, choked moans escaping their throats.  

_ Love comes in at the eyes,  _ and their gazes leveled, never leaving each other’s, just as it had been the first time they made love.  He thrust upward and she met him with her own downward motion, impaling herself on him, her plump tits jiggling with the movement, her tender womb inviting each stroke, the line between pain and pleasure merging as her release welled within her.  There was so much love, so much desire, so much everything her heart was like to burst, and she rode him like an untamed horse, purposely squeezing her walls around him to heighten his pleasure and hers.  If he tried to close his eyes or kiss her she tugged his hair in protest.

“I need to see your face, my love.”

“Yes….yes,” he panted, his obsidian gaze wet and shining with emotion. “Yes, love.”

Her release drew closer, and she could sense his was not far behind. She gripped his waist tighter between her thighs and arched her back from the wall.  “Fuck me, Jon. Love me, don’t stop….”

Obediently, he moved his right  hand from under her thigh to find the sensitive nub just above where their bodies were joined, teasing it with his thumb, gauging pressure and movement by her responses, stealing her breath, all the while his cock working inside her tight, slickened walls, “slick as a baby seal,” as he’d once described it. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her climax upon her, and his was as well.

“I...love...you…” he panted as he spilled inside her, and her release ripped through her with ferocity, waves crashing against rocks, prolonged and violent, both from his thumb against her and his cock inside, and she screamed his name, then collapsed her head against his shoulder.  

He stayed inside her for a few minutes, allowing the dulling pulse of her cunt to milk him dry of his seed, then settled her feet gently on the floor, leading her on legs as unsure as a newborn foal back to the bed, lying back and bringing her to rest  mostly atop him, her ear pressed against his chest, his heart pounding against her.  With deft fingers he stroked her bare back, feathering sweet kisses on the crown of her head.

She was not sure how long they lay there in silence, and they certainly hadn’t settled anything by coupling like savages, but her sense of grief was momentarily lifted, and she had nearly dozed off when he spoke.

“I think I have the answer.”  His hand grazed over her shoulder, down her arm, then retraced his path, gooseflesh raising all over her, the lightness of his touch maddening and comforting at once.

“About what?”

“About your dilemma. Our dilemma,” he corrected himself. 

“Do you?” she raised her head and smiled, their faces only an inch apart. “And what is this answer?”

“We could be wed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daenerys discuss marriage plans. Fluff and smut.

He said it as if it were as obvious as the seasons changing.  

 

It would be insincere for her to say she’d never pondered it.  She had, many times, even before they’d come together. She knew when she departed Meereen for Westeros that a marriage alliance may be necessary, and had left behind a lover to that end, though bile rose in her throat when she thought of taking yet another husband for political or military gain. But when she set eyes on Jon Snow, despite their rough introduction, she was, for the first time, intrigued at the prospect.  She’d even considered asking Tyrion for his opinion, which of course he would have offered. If a strategic marriage was to be proposed, she certainly would have preferred wedding and bedding the comely Northern King, with his lovely raven curls and youthful beauty, to some other toad-faced Westerosi lord. And fortune smiled upon her when she actually came to know him. Jon Snow was so much more than she could have hoped.  Kind, loyal, brave, handsome to the point of distraction, and, as she discovered on this very journey, a toe-curling lover. 

 

It was almost too idyllic, and that made her hesitate from suggesting it before.  Besides, she did not wish to trap Jon in a political marriage. He deserved more. So did she.

 

“Wed?” 

 

“Yes.”  He rose to his elbows, his eyes dark and earnest.  “It makes sense politically, for one thing. The only reason I could imagine your advisors would object is my bastardy.  But I’m still Warden of the North, or the King, depending on whom you ask, and, there is no other great house with a fitting suitor, besides perhaps House Arryn of the Vale. Their Lord is cousin to my siblings, but as I understand from Sansa, he is sickly and foolish, and just a lad at that. Might tend to be more agreeable to ya, but….” he wagged a wicked eyebrow, “no way could he do to you what I can.”

 

Daenerys sat up, shivering at the separation from Jon’s warmth. She gathered the furs around her breasts, her pulse thrumming. All she wanted was to pounce on him and cover him with kisses and say yes, yes, a thousand times yes, but she understood the brevity of the situation, the weight of this decision, and remembered that she was the Queen, not just a lovestruck maid. 

 

And she could not give him what a wife should.  

 

Again tears swam in her eyes.  “What...what about children, Jon?  You deserve an heir, and I can’t give that to you.”

 

He stroked her cheek with his knuckles, brushing a stray hair away.  “I told you I didn’t believe that. And I look forward to proving you wrong.  But if you are not,” he kissed her hand again, “there are other ways. How many orphans d’ya reckon live in King’s Landing, as we speak?” 

 

She wondered how much he had rehearsed this argument.  She closed her eyes and leaned in to his touch. “Thousands, probably.  But don’t you want a son of your own seed?”

 

A wan smile flitted over his lips. “I was a man of the Night’s Watch, Dany. Before that, I was just a motherless bastard. A mongrel with no name, the one mark upon my father’s honor.  Having a child was never something I considered. In fact, before I left for the Wall, I went to great lengths to avoid it. Never touched a woman, for fear of leaving her with another bastard. A child will come or it will not, I will be happy with you either way.” His gaze turned serious, and he took her hand in his, twining their fingers together. “I can’t say what the future holds. Nothing is certain, except this. I am in love with you, Daenerys Stormborn.  You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. I want to be yours, and you, mine, until the end of our days. So unless you have another objection, say yes. Marry me, and I will spend my life doing all I can to make you happy, and you would make me the happiest bastard alive.”

 

She could no longer hold the tears at bay, and she cupped his face in her hands and nuzzled his nose, wet drops falling from her cheeks to his, or maybe he was crying too, she couldn’t tell.

 

“Even if you are a bastard, you are worth a hundred trueborn lords.  And if the matter of your birth is at issue, it can easily be rectified.  Say the word, and I shall declare you Jon Stark.”

 

“You’d do that for me?” He moved to look her in the eye.  Yes, he was definitely fighting tears of his own. 

 

She closed her eyes and sighed, her fingers feathering his brow, stroking his raven locks. “I’d do anything for you. And it so happens to be within my authority to give you a name before making you my husband, though you must understand that I don’t care about your name.”  She placed her hand over the mortal wound on his chest. “It is you, your heart, your courage and honor that I love.” 

 

“Yes, then?”

 

“ _ Kessa, issa jorrāelagon _ .”

 

“I actually understood that,” he chuckled.

 

“Well you are a quick study.  Now, make love to me Jon.”

 

“ _ Kessa, issa dāria _ ,” he whispered, as he circled her waist and flipped her on her back.  

 

He clutched his cock and teased her, brushing the tip over her nub and folds, spreading her wetness around before entering her depths. He shuddered, lowering his head to her shoulder to steady himself, then grazed his lips over her neck and jawline to meet her plump, parted mouth.  

 

“I love you,” he breathed.

 

Then he slowly, rhythmically ground his hips into hers, and she dissolved into the nest of pillows and furs, her legs languidly sliding along his, her pelvis rising and falling in time with his, enjoying the easy cadence, both taking their time to relish what may be their last coupling for a long while, hands and limbs and lips and bodies entwined. Beyond physical pleasure, they were truly one flesh, all their love poured into the other, sustaining one another as much as water or air. It seemed hours that they rocked together, like a boat adrift in the vast ocean, his hard length the key to her lock, nudging her secret place deep within that sheltered her release. 

 

The slow and steady dance as old as the ages gave way to a quicker pace. His cock pierced her deeper when he shifted and tilted her hips, and his strokes became harder, more insistent, the delicious tension coiling tighter within her until she was sprung. She coated him in her nectar, her walls clenching him, holding him captive.

 

“ _ Jorrāelagon _ ,” she gasped as she came, tears trickling down her cheeks. “ _ Valzȳrys, dārys _ .” 

 

His hips stilled and he cried out, his seed filling her, joining what was already there, as her walls clamped around him, hard and euphoric, consuming all he could give.

 

When his cock finally softened, he withdrew from her, and they lay there for what seemed like eternity but only seconds at the same time, kissing, caressing, holding one another, whispering endearments and promises.      

 

***********     

  
  


“Jon?”  

 

“Hmm?” He stirred from a shallow doze.

 

“I don’t want to wait.”  She feathered her fingers over his chest, her eyes hazy in the afterglow of their lovemaking, her legs sore and tired but  pleasantly so. “I don’t want to step foot off this ship before we are husband and wife.” She waited with trepidation for his response, concerned that he may change his mind if pushed too eagerly, but his arms tightened around her and he nuzzled her  forehead.

 

“I don’t want to wait either, but are there not details to discuss? Under which gods are we to marry? We’ve no septon on board to be joined in the light of the seven, or no heart tree of the old gods.  And should we not confer with our advisors?”

 

Her lips curled in annoyance, pearly teeth flashing like fangs. “Hang our advisors, we do not require their permission. We will inform them of our decision, but I won’t hear an argument against it, or I’ll pitch them overboard myself, and they can swim to White Harbor.”  

 

He belted a hearty laugh at that. She knew he loved it when the dragon within her woke, if he were honest. She gripped his chin and turned his face to hers, nipping at his bottom lip, and she felt him shudder with excitement, his fingers indenting the tender flesh of her lower back. She could not help but press herself closer to him, and felt his cock fattening again. Fleetingly, she considered having him again, or taking him in her mouth.  _ Later,  _ she thought,  _ after we’re wed. I will leave this ship, married and well-fucked. _

 

His hands lowered to cup her ass, and she knew she had to take control. There was little time after all.

 

“The captain can marry us. He can wed us by whatever god he serves. If we must have a more formal ceremony later, for the people’s sake, or if Tyrion insists, it can be arranged. But today, all that is required is you and me. We need no extravagant gown or feast, no army of attendants making over us.  Just us. I’m sure you’d prefer a ceremony with as little fuss as possible, if I know you at all.”

 

“You know me too well, my Queen.” He rolled them over and kissed her. “Today then.”

 

Her heart thudded with excitement, a far cry from her feelings of dread and disgust on her first wedding day, for today she would marry for love, most of all.  “Very well, Jon Snow. Fetch Missandei for me, and go to your cabin to wash up. I shall do the same, and speak to the captain. Meet me at the prow of the ship in one hour, it should be sunrise by then.”  She gently placed her hand against his chest, pushing him off her, though he offered cursory resistance, and placed another peck on his nose.

 

“One hour,” he agreed, and for the first time since she’d known him, Jon Snow seemed almost giddy, endearing him to her even more.

 

*********

 

On the ship’s prow, the small party gathered. Daenerys stood regally in a new coat of white fur with red underlayment, a surprise from Missandei, who admitted she’d been at work on it since the start of the journey, knowing the Her Grace would require more garments appropriate for the harsh Northern climate. She wore a white stole over her shoulders, making her appear a proper Northern lady.  Jon donned his normal garb; his quilted gambeson and leathers, his gorget adorned with twin direwolves, his trousers and boots. His Valyrian steel sword, practically another appendage, was secured in its scabbard at his waist, the belt slung low across his hips. His raven curls were combed from his face and secured with a leather tie, his heavy black cloak billowed like a great storm cloud. She’d seen him wear the same thing for months, but believed he’d never been so handsome. She smirked as she tried to picture Jon Snow in a doublet of gold brocade and a silk cape and unblemished leather boots, as a high lord might wear on his wedding day.  She could not conjure that image, no matter how hard she tried. 

 

They stood together, her arm gracefully draped over his, flanked by Tyrion and Ser Davos, Missandei, and the captain, a Volantene, she believed. The sun was peeking over the horizon, though still concealed by thick gray clouds. Flurries of snow danced around them, stray flakes tickling her hair and nose before melting from her warmth. Her braid lashed like a whip in the wind as the ship cut across the icy water, and she had to raise her voice to speak above the whistling in her ears. She drew herself to her full height, commanding attention and respect despite her small stature.

 

“The Warden of the North and I have an announcement.  We will join our houses this morn, in marriage. Then there can be no doubt of the North’s allegiance when the time comes to deal with Cersei.  And….” she squeezed Jon’s arm and he reflexively drew her closer, “we’ve great affection for one another.”

 

It was as simple as that, her cool visage making it clear that this was not a matter for discussion, though Tyrion tried, prattling on about negotiations and contracts and illegitimacy and decrees until Davos placed a merciful hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, silencing him.

 

“We trust you and Ser Davos to formalize the details,” Daenerys explained.  “The matter of titles does not concern us just now. As I see things, Jon Snow and I are equals in the wars to come, and how we reorganize the kingdoms after that is a discussion for another day.  This is as fit a match as any, and you cannot disagree with that, my Lord Hand.” She glanced up at Jon, who beamed back at her, adoring and perhaps a bit full of himself. And though she was certainly in no mood to entertain Tyrion’s objections, now or later, she was pleased to notice her Hand’s face soften in understanding. As much as he frustrated her, and despite his admitted missteps, deep within her Daenerys wanted to believe that he trusted her judgment, that he trusted her, and that he wanted her happiness.

 

Jon turned to the captain then, nodding his head, signaling it was time to begin before everyone turned to blocks of ice.  He took both of Daenerys’ hands in his, raising them to his lips, kissing the gloved knuckles of the right then the left, his eyes fixed on hers, trying and failing mask the joy on his face, betraying that this marriage was for their love alone. She could not withhold her own smile at the sight.  He was happy. She was happy. If they survived all the war to come, she knew they would be happy together, a fate she never truly imagined for herself until Jon Snow walked through the doors of her audience chamber and into her heart.

 

As the captain began his recitations of promises to keep, love to share, souls to be sealed from this day until the end of their days, their small complement of witnesses, the ship itself, even the rest of the world faded from their notice. Then he laid his hands atop their joined ones, declaring them husband and wife, and they sealed their solemn vows with a chaste kiss, tinged with a hint of passion to come, once they could return to their state room to consummate their marriage.

 

***********

 

There was no feast, only a simple breakfast of smoked fish and potatoes and hard bread and ale, enjoyed with advisors and crew alike. Perhaps they could feast on a great boar and lemon cakes and free flowing wine one day to mark the occasion, in the presence of Jon’s family, his vassals, and the new people joining her fold. But for now they would have to make due with what the cook had already planned for the meal, and the look on Jon’s face made it clear that he was far more interested in feasting on his wife. Her underclothes moistened at the thought as she squirmed in her seat and imagined returning the favor.  

 

Throughout the meal, Jon’s hungry glances, the feel of his bare fingers mimicking against hers exactly how he planned to touch other parts of her, drove her to the brink of such madness that she was ready to order everyone from the mess hall and have him right there on one of the dining tables, or better yet, to allow all present to witness them coming together, leaving no doubt that they were truly husband and wife.  But decorum prevailed, even though she knew he felt the same.

 

As quickly as was proper, they excused themselves. Ser Davos threw a knowing wink at Jon,  Tyrion an audible groan. The beleaguered dwarf had taken the cabin next to theirs for his use, and no doubt had been privy to the racket from their lovemaking for well over a fortnight now, though he’d restrained himself from scolding his Queen, lest he risk being carved up for shark bait.

 

They giggled like children as they made their way through the corridors to her cabin.   _ Our cabin, _ she thought,  _ for what is mine is now also his, as I am his.  _ They scarcely made it through the door before Jon was upon her, pinning her against it, sliding the bolt through the lock behind her, unwrapping her stole, unfastening her coat, pawing at her shift and leggings, following the trail of her clothes with his lips and tongue. She fumbled with the buckles of his gorget; she should have been better at this by now , so often had she removed it, but in her desperation to have him between her legs she grew clumsy.  She wanted this to be special, their first time together as husband and wife, though in practice they’d enjoyed their wedding night over a fortnight past, and every night since, including twice before sunrise on this day.

 

Jon ceased his attention to her breasts long enough to help her rid him of his cumbersome garments.  Much like that first night, they finally stood together, at the door, naked as their name days, admiring and worshiping one another with their eyes and hands and lips.  He pressed her closer to the door, his hips grinding into hers, her hands roaming over his back, fingernails biting into his skin as he pulled back, gave her a look of pure adoration that melted her, then covered her mouth with his while he snaked one hand down her torso to her cunt, testing her wetness, teasing her sensitive nub.

 

“Jon….”

 

“I want to taste my wife,” he purred.  

 

“Do it then.”

 

She expected him to drop to his knees and begin his work, and her eyes flew open in shock when she found herself lifted from the floor, cradled in his strong arms as he carried her to the bed.

 

“Properly,” he said, sitting her down on the edge.  “Lie back.”

 

She did as she was bid, scooting herself up to rest her head on the pillows, her husband hovering over her, his hands and lips everywhere at once, her senses somehow heightened, each caress like flame that made her burn impossibly hotter for him.  Her knees were spread wide, welcoming him, and he crouched between them, peppering her lower abdomen with tiny kisses, moving to her thighs, his lips touching every part of her but where she needed him most. His fingers did their work, circling around her entrance, her juices coating them, but did not penetrate her, despite her mewling pleas.

 

“Jon….do it, love….”

 

He raised to his forearms, his black eyes boring into hers, and skidded his body along the length of hers, taking her mouth for one more searing kiss.  Then, without further fanfare, his slid back down like a serpent, lying prone between her legs, his tongue flicking and retreating, flicking and retreating, his fingers curled inside her. By his position, her hips were pinned to the mattress, and if she tried to squirm or buck, he ceased his ministrations until she stilled.

 

Finally it dawned on her that he wanted to dictate the pace, to relish the taste of his wife’s desire, to draw out her release for as long as he could, knowing it may be difficult to achieve given their earlier exertions, but determined to bestow it all the same. He teased her nub with the tip of his tongue, concentrating on stimulating her just there, moaning as he devoured her. It was not long before she felt her blood pooling in her core, starting out as a trickle but quickly building to a rush, and as he always seemed to do, he could sense her approach.  He doubled his efforts then, suckling, kissing, laving determindly, his fingers working within her.

 

“Jon!” She squealed as she shattered, but he continued his feast until she squeezed his head so tightly with her thighs, she well could have crushed his skull.  Wave upon wave crashed within her, her walls spasming around his fingers.”

 

“That’s it love,” he hummed, “come for me.  Come hard for me, my beautiful wife.”

 

Then, without another word, his cock was inside her, his lips on hers, her juices still coating them. She had wanted to taste him, to take his full length in her mouth and suck him dry of his seed, but apparently her Lord Husband had other things in mind. He withdrew from her long enough to turn her on her side, tucked into his left arm, her back pressing against the hard panes of his chest.  She felt his throbbing length against her backside, and his hand lower to position it, then with one upward thrust he was in her again, his right hand fondling her breast while he planted rough kisses on her neck and shoulder and back, drawing the sensitive skin between his teeth, suckling, marking her. From this angle he could not pound into her with abandon, and the pressure against her womb was delightful.

 

“Daenerys,” he whispered.  “Mine.”

 

“Yours, Jon.” She turned her head to catch his lips, and he plunged his tongue in her mouth before he shifted yet again, rolling her onto her belly, and reflexively she raised her pelvis from the mattress.  The last man to take her in this manner was Khal Drogo, whose thrusts inside her were a sign of ownership and entitlement, with no regard for her desire or satisfaction. She gasped for air and suppressed those terrible memories.  That was not Jon. Jon loved her. Jon respected her. Jon gave her pleasure as none other had. She was his wife now, not because she’d been sold, but because she’d given herself willingly, and suddenly the carnal nature of this position, the possessiveness of it, the visual of how it must look for him to see himself entering and withdrawing from her, claiming her with each stroke, drove her arousal to new heights.  She wanted him to take her. She wanted him to make her his, to possess her in this respect, despite her station as his wife and Queen. She wanted this beautiful man to take her like a whore, and she wished to pleasure him as expertly as a whore could. She’d learned from a whore how to fuck, how to get her own enjoyment out of the act, how to use it as a means of power when she had so little otherwise. Jon Snow did not buy her, he did not own her, but she was irrevocably his. In this moment, she could submit to him, to let him have his way with her, to unleash all that she knew he held within.  She scrambled to her knees, then pushed her arms straight to allow her to sit up, his cock still inside her.

 

“Dany?”

 

“Shh…don’t stop my love,” she implored.  She curled her fingers around the top of the headboard, and he took her meaning, thrusting harder into her, harder than he ever had in all their weeks of lovemaking before now.  “Fuck me Jon. Fuck me hard,  _ issa valzȳrys _ …. _ Nyke aōhon , issa dārys.” _

 

She needed to come again, but the angle of his cock, though deeper and pleasing, made her release evasive as she could feel it begin to build then retreat.  She could also tell by his more erratic thrusts _ ,  _ his guttural moans, that his was close.  She reached behind herself and grasped the hand that rested on her waist, guiding him to her apex, and he understood, circling the sensitive button with a rough thumb.  Between his touch and his cock inside her to bring her along, she again felt the dam inside her ready to break.

 

“Yes my love,” she panted, “like that….I love you….”

 

And they both shattered, not caring now who might hear them cry out in their ecstacy, for now it was certainly no secret what  the Dragon Queen and her noble Northerner were about. 

 

Marriage consummated, they sank into the mattress, above the covers, naked, sweating, sated, in love. She wanted drift to sleep again, to still the sun in the sky and the winds and the current, but before long she heard the bustling of activity above decks, and the shouts from the crew that land was near. 

 

Reluctantly they rose and dressed. When they were presentable again, Jon wrapped his arms around her and they peered out of the portholes, the sky bright enough to see the outline of White Harbor in the distance.

 

“Almost there,” he sighed, kissing the top of her head.

 

“Yes.” A lump caught in her throat.

 

He took her hands in his and kissed them. “Whatever happens out there, it can’t take away what’s happened here. And whatever we face….”

 

“We face together, my husband,” she said with a soft smile.

 

He pulled her in for a kiss, longing, sweet, indelible in her mind. “I like the sound of that, my love.”

 

Together. Damn the Winter, damn the night, damn whatever else might seek to part them. Jon Snow was hers, by the laws of gods and men, and in her heart. 

 

And anything or anyone that tried to make it otherwise would soon learn what it meant to wake the Dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valyrian Translations:  
> Kessa, issa jorrāelagon: Yes, my love  
> Kessa, issa dāria: Yes, my queen  
> Jorrāelagon, Valzȳrys, dārys: Love, husband, King  
> issa valzȳrys….Nyke aōhon , issa dārys: My husband, I am yours my king
> 
> Not sure how I feel about this chapter. I kind of glossed over the wedding in part because I had no clue what the vows might be. I assume they are married in the sight of the Lord of Light. And I didn’t think the vows were as important to the story as the fact that our dragon beans got married! Also the smut was a struggle as it always is for me. And describing events in general is harder for me than writing the dialogue to go with it, and this didn’t have as much dialogue. Anyway, it’s kind of a day in the life of Jon and Daenerys Targaryen approach to writing. A significant day, granted, but a day. I hope you enjoy, please comment to let me know what you think! ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to try to get in Dany's head with the important question: WHY does she want to rule? What is her motivation? It's not powerlust, for sure. But how will her ambition square with her feelings for Jon, and what she wants from that relationship? Is love really the death of duty? Can't she do both? Please take the time to comment. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
